playing in the rain

When I was ten I lived in Mindanao in the southern Philippines. To this day, the deep colors of that plateau-ed landscape are part of my soul. I could paint the red soil, the blue-purple mountains and the green green green from memory. The geography was such that most afternoons, deep grey-blue thunder clouds rolled across the land. Out the back windows of our house, my brothers and I would watch the approaching line of rain pough through the corn fields. We would pause, sniffing the smell of water hitting dirt through the screen, our noses quivering like the young animals we were. As soon as the rain hit the back fence, and the first drops ricochetted off our tin roof, we would startle, break, and run shrieking outside. The rain was warm. The drops of it fell plump and heavy enough to sting a little. We were soaked before our bare feet could speed us, running, down the slate front walk and out into the open field. "Playing in the rain" was what we called it. We twirled and ran. We lay down in hot puddles and let it pelt our backs. We hydroplaned through ditches of water on old wooden planks--running with a board and jumping on top until it sank. We built whole kingdoms in the mud under the meeting hall. The rivers of rain water floated our boats manned by bugs and centipedes flooded out of their homes in the ground. We came home muddy and spent and ALIVE. It was worship. It was free and wild and joyful celebration of God's creation.
Missouri has warm rain and thunderstorms too. So I took it upon myself to show Charlie how to play in the rain this week. The lesson was well learned. And his Mama's heart worshiped a little better for having his company!